


Fire, Find Your Home in Me

by dragonifyoudare



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Diary/Journal, F/M, Family is complicated, Leandra critical, Purple Hawke, casual Hawke/Isabela, healer Hawke, look she is not an A+ parent, minor Hawke/Isabela, she's no monster but she's got issues, slight AU, so is love, weak mage Hawke, when your magic is weak you learn to get creative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-04-24 21:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonifyoudare/pseuds/dragonifyoudare
Summary: Yana Hawke has been keeping a journal for five years when the Blight starts, and she's not going to stop just because she's lost her home and her sister.(Hawke's journals, starting right after Bethany's death and extending through her time in Kirkwall.)





	1. Written in the First Few Days After Fleeing Lothering

**Author's Note:**

> I probably shouldn't be starting another fic right now, but I'm stuck on Their Chorus Was a Battle Cry and this just sort of came to me. So have a present? This will probably be my second priority, but I do intend to keep up with it.
> 
> Title adapted from the lyrics of Lorde's "Yellow Flicker Beat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [LathboraViran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LathboraViran/works) for betaing!

** JOURNAL ONE: A CHEAP NOTEBOOK BOUGHT AT THE LOTHERING MARKET **

**scrawled on the first page of a new journal**

Bethany is dead.

 

**written some time later in a slightly less shaky hand**

Bethany is dead and Mother blames me.

 

**written on a fresh page**

It’s been four days. I think I can write properly now.

We were the last people in Lothering. Mother said she wouldn’t leave while Carver might still be coming, but she spent the last three days at Father’s grave, only coming home to sleep. She stopped eating almost entirely. I think she intended to die there.

She kept telling me and Bethany to leave. We kept saying we wouldn’t leave without her. Carver showed up late the third night. The look on his face when he came into the cottage and found me and Bethany at the fire was definitely not worth it, but it was pretty funny. Mother woke up then, but Carver only stayed awake long enough to eat an entire chicken. He fell asleep in his armor, which can’t have been comfortable.

The next morning, I made sure the supplies we had packed were still good. The bread was stale, but there was nothing to be done about that. Bethany went down to the root cellar to see if we had missed anything that would keep well. When she came out, it was with a sack of potatoes and father’s old staff. Not the “walking staff” he used all my life, but the bladed one that was the only thing he kept from his mercenary days. It has an inexplicable naked lady on the top, but that’s beside the point.

Mother was going through the little chest with everything that’s left -- that _was_ left -- of Father’s things, looking for something to take with her. When she saw Bethany with that staff, she stopped, and she smiled like I hadn’t seen in a long time. I don’t mean just since before Carver joined the army marching South. I mean since Father died. Bethany said “It’s been with us longer than Yana. It shou

I thought I could do this. I can’t. I’ll write more tomorrow.

 

**written lightly so as to preserve ink**

Aveline says I should try writing again, that it will help with the grief. I told her she should try it, then, but she just gave me this _look._ Anyway, here I am, writing again. 

Bethany was killed by an ogre. Carver and Aveline killed the ogre. I cowered with Mother and Aveline’s husband, not far from Bethany’s body, staring at the pulp that used to be the left side of her face.

I can’t write about this. I can’t think about this.

Plenty of other things to think about.

Aveline has it worse than me. I shouldn’t have talked to her like I did. Slitting her own husband’s throat… Bethany was taken from us, but Aveline had to give Wesley back to the Maker herself.

Shit. Can’t think about this.

The witch. I can write about the witch.

How did she turn into a dragon? It wasn’t an illusion. I may be a shit mage, but I’d have known if it was an illusion. Who the hell was she?

Why couldn’t she have shown up earlier?

I need to stop. I’ll write more when we reach Gwaren. I’ve been keeping these journals for five years and I’m not going to stop now.


	2. Written on Reaching Gwaren

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [LathboraViran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LathboraViran/works). Thank you so much!

**written firmly, as though to make the words feel more real**

It’s been days since we started trekking through Brecilian Forest. I don’t know how many, but definitely days. We couldn’t have gotten this close to Gwaren in less than a week, and that’s where the signposts say the chimney smoke I see is coming from. Of course, for someone who can turn into a dragon, maybe walking speed isn’t much of a limit. She did something to us, though, to keep the darkspawn away and so that we don’t remember. Mother won’t talk about it at all, but Aveline and Carver agree. We definitely didn’t ride here on dragonback. My feet hurt too much for that, and my ass too little. Besides, the food is all gone. We walked here on our own, but we can’t remember it. That’s at least as frightening as any darkspawn. I’ll be delivering that amulet the first chance I get. I don’t want to think about what might happen if I don’t.

 

**written lightly, to preserve ink**

Gwaren is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Even that town we spent the last months Mother was pregnant with the twins in wasn’t this big, or this crowded. When I mentioned the crowds to Mother she smiled for the first time since Bethany. She said something about Kirkwall being a hundred times more grand, and I restrained myself from commenting on what that must smell like.

We’re staying at an inn that might give a city Kirkwall’s size a run for its money when it comes to odor. It was the cheapest we could find, though, and we’ll need all the coin we can get to buy passage tomorrow. The town isn’t swamped with refugees yet, but it will be. We would have slept in the streets, but it started raining, so we paid for one room for all of us and gave mother the bed.

Running out of light and I am  _ not _ paying for another candle. More tomorrow, hopefully on a ship.

(Aveline snores.)

 

**written in grainy, low quality ink**

We’re on the ship, passage paid for, an unholy amount of dried meat in our packs to see us through the next couple weeks. Two weeks ago, I would have said we were safe now. After what I’ve seen, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. Still, we cast off in a few hours and I’ll be glad of it. The ship rocking is making me nauseous, but it’s hardly as bad as what I’ve been facing lately.

I splurged on ink, since we had a few coppers left after buying passage and provisions for the trip. I’m not sure if the last bit of money should be ours or Aveline’s, but she told me to “buy the blighted ink, Hawke,” so I’ve decided to pay her back when we’re living the high life in a fancy estate in Kirkwall.

I’ve never been in a fancy estate before. I haven’t even been near one since we settled in Lothering years ago. The biggest building there was the Chantry, followed by the tavern. Honestly, it should have been the other way around, given most people’s priorities. Well, at least until we got word of Ostagar. Then people were a lot more interested in praying.

I probably shouldn’t be so flippant -- we wouldn’t have gotten through the last week without Andraste’s blessing, that’s for sure -- but the Chantry is not Andraste. Eventually, the hypocrisy gets to you, if you’re really looking. I still stopped at one in here, though, to burn a candle for Bethany. A templar came in, and I left as soon as I could without looking suspicious. I couldn’t even finish the prayers.

_ Andraste, _

_ I who remain here mourn her absence. _

_ Give me the strength to hold her memory dear _

_ Without bitterness _

_ Without regret _

_ In knowledge that she is at the Maker’s side. _

 

**written in an unsteady hand**

Just finished vomiting. Will be vomiting again soon. I hate ships.


	3. Written in the Gallows while Sleeping Under an Eave

**written on a page with a small, mysterious stain on the corner**

I finally feel well enough to write again.

We arrived in Kirkwall after two weeks of sea travel/constant vomiting on my part. I was barely able to keep any water down the last day, so that’s even less funny than it sounds. By the time we finally passed into the Kirkwall harbor and the waves calmed enough for me to start feeling something like normal, Mother was yelling at the ship’s officers, trying to get someone with medical experience. It was completely useless, since there was no one aboard who could do more than give me herbs that I vomited right back up. But it’s good to know Mother cares, I guess?

 Benefit number one of all this: I missed the giant statues of tortured slaves outside the city.

 Benefit number two: I missed most of Aveline and Carver arguing about the battle at Ostagar and whether the Grey Wardens betrayed the king. Aveline says they must have, Caver says they wouldn’t do something like that. I say “shut up, my head hurts enough already.”

 Benefit number three: there is no benefit number three.

 We emerged onto the docks, me shaky, with a nasty headache and altogether in terrible shape, to find that we were not exactly the first refugees to arrive. We had to push our way through the crowd to find someone with any authority. Mother told him she wanted to see Lord Gamlen Amell, and that he would be paid for his trouble. She used a voice I’ve never heard her use before. It wasn’t condescending exactly, just full of this _assumption,_ like she was as sure he would do what she said as she was that if she dropped her bag it would fall.

 He looked at her like she was crazy.

 I tried to turn on the charm and get him to pass us up the chain of command. I’m not sure if it was the charm or the strong desire not to have me vomit on his boots, but he did it. We’re waiting to see a Captain Ewald now. Hopefully he’ll listen to charm, since I’m actually feeling less like I’m going to throw up on someone with every passing minute.

This is just pecking order nonsense. It’s only a matter of time until we’re through.

Mother is fussing about how it’s time for another small cup of water. Apparently I’m supposed to not drink all I can get at once, even though I want to. I’ll write more after we talk to the captain.

 

**written with such ferocity that the page is nearly torn in places**

There’s no estate. Of course there’s no fucking estate. In other news, I’ve seen a total of eight people die now.

Right, let me start at the beginning.

First, Captain Ewald showed up. Very impressive armor, which I was sure was completely unnecessary until, before we could say a word, this bunch of armed men got between us and started demanding very loudly to be let in, or else.

Now, being armed isn’t such a bad thing, necessarily. We had to leave Carver’s very large sword with a man who gave us far too little money for it back in Gwaren, but Aveline had held on to her longsword and Wesley’s shield. Carver, bless his heart, found a large knife somewhere on the trip. I’m not sure what he traded for it. Probably some of my food, since I wasn’t using much of it anyway. Even I held on to a large stick that I might or might not have hoped to smash darkspawn heads in with.

(I didn’t smash any heads, because I had no idea what I was doing, but I did smack a few in other places when they got too close.)

These fellows, though, were _very_ armed. Looked like they were planning to break through into Kirkwall by force if they had to, which was a spectatcularly stupid idea. Eventually, they decided to put it to the test. Long story short, I saw my first human-on-human fight, the six of them ended up dead, and I think Carver might have a concussion. A guardswoman got three fingers cut off and I couldn’t even stop the bleeding, not without knowing how she’d react. Probably not even if I had known she’d be fine with it, considering where we were.

Have I mentioned that it turns out they were keeping us in a cleared out section of the Circle courtyard? If not, it’s because the thought makes me want to start vomiting again.

Anyway, the captain was grateful enough for Carver and Aveline’s help that he agreed to look for our Uncle Gamlen. This was also, however, when we learned that there’s _no fucking estate._ He’d never heard of an Amell family as nobility in the city. When I mentioned the address Mother made sure we all memorized he sort of grimaced and said that was very definitely not the Amell estate anymore. Mother was fussing over Carver and didn’t hear that, and I haven’t told her yet.

One of his subordinates said he knew a Gamlen Amell who was, and I quote, “a weasel who can’t rub two coppers together.” The captain asked him if he’d been gambling again, the guardsman turned red and started sputtering, and the captain said that if he’d been betting guard-issued equipment again he’d string him up by his toes, etc.

I’m hoping the guardsman exaggerated, but I don’t believe it. How am I supposed to talk to Mother about this?

 

**a brief notation**

Healed Carver’s concussion. I remember Father saying most mages couldn’t do work this delicate because they had too much power and not enough fine control. He said most mages had swords, and I had a scalpel. I remember that being comforting at the time, when I was just starting to realize my little sister would always be more powerful than me. It’s a lot less comforting when another “sword” might have saved her life.

Still haven’t told mother about the estate.


	4. Written in the Gallows Using an Old Crate as a Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a beta! Many thanks to hexlorde for their help!

**an entry with the ink runny in places from raindrops**

Finally got the current date, so now I know how long we were in the Brecilian Forest, and since everything else. It’s been a month since Bethany died. We should just now be changing out of mourning clothes.

I’ve been praying a lot. Chantry prayers, and just talking to the Maker. It helps. I think.

 

**written in an occasionally hesitant hand**

I haven’t been taking good care of myself since Bethany died: ignoring my hair, wearing the same clothes for days at a time, not washing as much as I should. Carver’s been the opposite, cleaning his armor over and over, so much that I’m surprised the leather isn’t developing holes. He was sharpening that knife of his just as much until Aveline and I impressed on him how creepy it was.

Anyway, I finally got around to paying some attention to my hair for the first time since the ogre, and it’s not a good situation.  Lots of breakage. Also, it looks like somebody nicked my apple vinegar wash while I was sleeping. I hope they try to chug it.

Mother helped me with my braids for the first time in years. Bethany and I used to do that for each other, and I started crying about halfway through. Mother didn’t say a word and I didn’t see until she was done with the back of my head that she was crying too. We hugged then, and I don’t think she’s ever held me that tightly in my life.

 

**written lightly again, as though running out of ink**

Between being sick and in mourning, I haven’t really been paying a lot of attention to other people. I barely know Aveline at all, even after travelling with her for these weeks. So, Aveline: She’s steady. You can tell she’s feeling her loss -- she doesn’t try to hide it -- but she doesn’t let it take her out of the present. She wasn’t able to do that at first, but sometime in the weeks where I was wrapped up in my pain and also puking a lot, she’s come to terms, or at least closer to terms than I have. You can’t help but admire that.

 

**an entry that grows lighter toward the end as the bottle of ink is finished**

So, I’m a mercenary now.

Uncle Gamlen is indeed a weasel without two coppers to rub together. He apparently lost the estate over “a debt.” He was a bit vague.

He took his time finding us. I know there are a lot of refugees, but most of them are approximately the color of paste. Just ask for “the Rivainis” and we would be easy enough to find. Maker knows I’ve been mistaken for a foreigner enough in my life. Looking “exotic” might as well do me some good for once.

Of course, now I actually am a foreigner.

Mother seemed to just be relieved to see a familiar face here, but I couldn’t help noticing how her brother was dressed. I wasn’t expecting silks and velvets at this point, but the fact that he was wearing undyed homespun was not a good sign. Also, he smelled kind of cabbage-y, which I wasn’t a fan of. I’m also not a fan of Gamlen in general. First impressions may not always be accurate, but reacting to the news that your niece is dead with “don’t drop this on me here” is disgusting. I realize he didn’t know Bethany, but that doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make any of this okay.

Apparently getting us into the city would take a sizable bribe which Gamlen, completely unshockingly can’t afford. What _is_ shocking is that the reason the bribe would have to be sizable is that the _Knight Commander_ has been cracking down. What is a templar doing cracking down on city guards for anything? It probably has to do with this being her turf. I hope.

Long story short, Gamlen’s solution was to indenture me and Carver. He had two potential “jobs,” a mercenary group and a smuggling operation. I decided that I would rather avoid the city guard’s attention, especially if they’re as closely tied to the templars as they seem to be here, and said we’d go with the mercenaries. I probably should have asked Carver first. He got huffy afterward.

It didn’t take long for Gamlen to set up a meeting with Meeran, our new employer. He’s an asshole who stared at my breasts for several seconds before addressing my face. I wish I’d had time to learn more about him and his group before committing. Not sure how I’d have gone about it, though, and we’re low on food, so I suppose it’s alright. Sort of.

In the end, I had to convince him to take us. Apparently Uncle Gamlen _told him I’m a mage_ . No need to wonder how Gamlen knew that in the first place. Apparently someone _was_ reading the letters mother sent. They just couldn’t be bothered to reply.

Have I mentioned that I’m not a fan of Uncle Gamlen?

I had to tell Meeran the truth. I couldn’t have them expecting me to be flinging fireballs, only to find out in the middle of a fight that it’s more a matter of sparks. He almost retracted his offer, but he listened to reason, or at least rhetoric: As he was turning away, I grabbed his elbow and told him that just because I wasn’t a battlemage didn’t mean I was useless. I poured everything into the next few sentences: Bethany’s death, the reality of Gamlen and Kirkwall, the anger at Mother I’ve been trying not to feel, and years and years of being afraid I am useless as a mage. I don’t remember everything I said, but I remember when I saw the look in his eyes changed.  
  
“When you’re holding your guts in with both hands and screaming for your mother, well, your mother wouldn’t have been able to save you, but _I might have._ ”  
  
I knew I had him then. So I’m a mercenary now, and Kirkwall is, at least for the next year, home.  
  



	5. Written By Smokey Lamplight on Gamlen's Writing Desk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to hexlorde for betaing!

** JOURNAL TWO: A LEATHERBOUND JOURNAL, A LATER REGRETTED SPLURGE AFTER A JOB WITH THE RED IRON **

 

**written firmly, with tight control**

Tomorrow is the anniversary of Bethany’s death. I need to stop dithering and decide whether I’m going to the Hightown chantry. I know it would mean a lot to Mother, but what I really want to do is go to the shrine at the market, say my prayers, light my candle and avoid the Chantry as an organization, as much as I possibly can.

That’s a lie. What I want to do is curl up in my scratchy bed under my scratchy blanket and cry and not get out until I feel better. This anniversary is bringing everything back. It was hard enough to get out of bed today, but I did. I got up, I did my spear forms, and then I didn’t get back in bed. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I did another set of forms. Practice makes a perfect distractions. I need to find somewhere else to do it, though. There were a dozen kids in the street when I came out this morning, waiting to watch me wave a stick around like a madwoman.

I’ve been practicing more lately, overdoing it like I was at the beginning. It’s Bethany being so close to the surface again. I doubt one more person with a spear, even a spear with that magical push I put behind it sometimes, could have made a difference. But I can’t stop imagining. Am I good enough now? What if the ogre had been a little slower? Would the skill I have now have been enough if it was slower, if it hesitated?

I’ll go to the chantry with Mother tomorrow, and try to drag Carver along, too. Bethany would have done it for me.

 

**written later the same day**

No more dragging Carver to the Chantry.

Mother and I were praying, but at “May you rest at the bosom of the Maker” he got up and stalked off. I guess I understand, sort of. Carver was never very religious, so why would he find comfort where mother and I do? He just seemed uncomfortable the whole time. So when he left, I thought he’d wait outside. Instead, he started chatting with a templar.

Admittedly, I don’t think it was her templar-ness that attracted him. You couldn’t see much of her figure under the armor, but those _cheekbones_. Beautiful eyes, too, and since I wasn’t having a conversation with her I let myself look at her lips a little too long. There wasn’t much else to do while I waited for Carver to finish talking to her, since I wasn’t willing to get that close to a templar even to get out of the Chantry any quicker. I swear she gave me a weird look anyway, when we did leave. Hopefully she just noticed me staring at her lips.

 

**dashed off the next day before going out to look for work**

Carver won’t shut up about that templar. Aside from a healthy but kind of academic appreciation for her looks, he’s mostly interested in the fact that she was a cooper’s apprentice until two years ago and in her regular salary. That second part is admittedly as pleasant to fantasize about these days as a pretty face, but this is getting old. Hopefully he’ll shut up about it soon.

 

**an entry after a pasted-in flyer**

**  
**

I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. The Deep Roads. Where the darkspawn come from. Why am I considering this? Because we need the fucking money, that’s why. Maker take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone not able to see it, the flyer image in the last entry reads:
> 
> RICHES AWAIT!  
> A GREAT EXPEDITION TO BE MOUNTED!
> 
> House Tethras will delve into the empty Deep Roads to retrieve the bounty of ages past, and men and women of stout constitution are needed to carry forth the treasure.
> 
> THREE SOVEREIGNS to each able-bodied worker who joins the expedition and FIVE SOVEREIGNS to each guard. Must bring own gear, including weapon and armor.
> 
> Must bring own gear, including weapon and armor!
> 
> ENQUIRE AT THE OFFICES OF THE DWARVEN MERCHANTS’ GUILD, **BACK** ENTRANCE


	6. Written on the Stoop of Gamlen's Home on Four Evenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My usual beta was unavailable this time around, so thanks to IntelligentWolf for giving this a quick look over!

**an exhausted entry**

Well. It’s been a day.

First, I argued my way through three different Dwarven Merchant’s Guild functionaries (Carver contributed by glaring sullenly) to get to the man who posted the flyer: Bartrand Tethras. Long story short, he didn’t want to talk to us.The letter of recommendation from Meeran didn’t matter, and neither did having fought Darkspawn (I carefully didn’t say how few). He wasn’t looking to hire anyone else. So we left the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild, me trying to think of  _ something _ I could do to keep the templars off our backs, and preferably get us out of Gamlen’s hovel, Carver still glaring sullenly.

Then, Bartrand Tethras’s  _ little brother  _ showed up, and he definitely did want to talk to us.

Varric Tethras introduced himself by shooting a crossbow bolt through the cloak of a pickpocket who had just made off with my coin purse (which contained all of eleven coppers at the time). I’m still not sure how to react to that kind of precision. He let the thief go, though, after getting the purse back. I could see the expression that flashed across his face when he felt how light it was, and that look of surprise made me feel ashamed. I’ve never been ashamed of being poor before. Angry, sure -- almost constantly angry, lately -- but not ashamed.

After introducing himself and insulting his brother, he said he has a “business proposition” for me and Carver and invited us to have dinner with him at the Hanged Man tomorrow night, his treat. I’m not about to turn down a free meal.

 

**an entry written on a full stomach**

I need to talk about the food first, because I’m going to keep making asides about it if I don’t. Aside from the creamiest soup I’ve had in over a year, which had mushrooms and some spices I don’t even know the name of, there was  _ duck _ . I haven’t had game since leaving Lothering, and when Mother cooked duck it always came out dry. This was tender and rich. And there were these potatoes, cooked in the duck fat, that have me revising my opinion of potatoes, and possibly my entire life. I didn’t know potatoes could taste that good. There were even fresh peaches at the end, with sugared cream. I will remember this food as long as I live.

Mother used to cook with ingredients like these when I was really young, before the twins were born and, I assume, money started running out. She didn’t really know what she was doing, though. Neither would the cook at the Hanged Man, if the couple meals I’ve had there in the past are any guide. Master Tethras must have had the food, or even a cook, brought in.   


So, the food was good. Enough about that.

(The food was  _ amazing. _ )

After bribing me and Carver, Master Tethras explained his proposal. He apparently has a lot of contacts around the city, people who need an able blade. He’s willing to point those contacts in my direction if I’m willing to invest the pay in his brother’s expedition. He thinks that there’s time to earn enough to buy a few full shares. He also said, and I was surprised by how upfront he was about this, that they need those last few shares bought, or they can’t mount this expedition at all. Supplies are already bought, but not quite enough. House Tethras is in for too much to pull out of the venture, but they can’t risk more.

We might be able to keep scraping by, but Varric was offering us a chance, at least a  _ chance, _ to actually get out of the gutter. Five shares and we’d be able to get a place of our own in an area of Lowtown less prone to chokedamp and farther from Darktown. It would give us breathing room to learn some skills we can sell other than stabbing people.

I looked at Carver. He nodded. I shook Varric Tethras’s hand, and now we have a real plan.

 

**an entry with a few greasy finger marks**

I let Aveline buy me lunch today, hopefully for the last time. We had those spicy cod fritters they sell near the docks between her patrols.

Apparently she’s had me watched again, because she knew about the talk with Bartrand. At least she doesn’t have a full spy network yet -- she didn’t know about Carver’s and my dinner with Varric. She told me she’d keep an eye out for jobs where the guard can hire temporary recruits. She also asked if I’d gotten good enough with a spear to handle combat, which rankled a bit given how long I was with the Iron, but I think it’s just her worrying. Going through something like what we went through together makes you close in a way nothing else seems to. With Aveline, that can show up as acting like she’s my parent, for all that she’s only about five years older than me.

We did our usual venting thing, where I complain about family, and Aveline complains about how the guard is run. Apparently she’s been making noise about that to her superiors, which hasn’t done anything but get her “dead patrols” and makework. It sounds worse than what Carver has told me about the army. Then again, Carver joined when they were rushing toward a Blight. Things could have gotten streamlined.

 

**a quick, excited entry**

I sent a short letter to Varric, asking if he’d keep an ear out about the Dalish clan the witch wanted me to hand her amulet over to. I got a note back with a “yes, but you’re going to have to tell me the story behind that one,” and with information about a job. Hopefully the first of many. I’m supposed to meet a dwarf named Anso at the east entrance to the nearest market this evening. Sounds shady, but it’ll do.


	7. Written at Ungodly Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild Fenris appears (finally)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to hexlorde for betaing!

**scribbled in quickly before grabbing a bit of sleep**

That was a hell of a night. Tonight is going to be worse. Apparently I’m going to try to kill a magister.

This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. If Carver and I die, what happens to Mother?

I keep asking myself why I’m doing this. I think it comes down to father, and what he said about the Circle, and how much he didn’t say. He talked about how [feeling trapped, etc.] when we were kids, but when I asked about the templars, about what happened to certain friends of his, the stories always ended. By the time I was old enough that he might have explained, I had stopped asking.

This Fenris, the elf who hired Anso to hire us, he was enslaved. I figure it’s just about the same thing, in a lot of ways. So I’m going to help him. I’m going to try to kill a magister. I’ll leave mother a note tonight, somewhere she won’t find it unless she has to go through my things. And I’ll pray.

 

**an entry in a shaky hand**

I’m alive. Praise Andraste, I’m  _ alive. _

The magister wasn’t there. Demons were. But I’m not dead. I’m fine. Carver and Aveline and Fenris and me, we’re all fine.

The rage demon was the worst. I recognized it from Father’s descriptions. It was like molten fire, the only bright thing in the room, burning its way into my brain. Even the one at the end, the tall thing I think must have been an “arcane horror,” doesn’t stick in my memory the same way.

I’m going to be fine.

Meeting with Varric  tomorrow later this morning. I should try to get more sleep.

 

**written in the first pre-dawn light**

I can’t sleep. Two nights ago I met an elf with white hair, so much lyrium in his skin I could smell it, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. He asked me and my brother to fight a magister, and I agreed. It was stupid, and I thank Andraste the magister wasn’t there. How desperate must Fenris have been to “turn and face the tiger” try to do it with just three fighters, skilled or not? I don’t think he knew I was a mage until we were fighting the demons.

I’ll figure this out later. Meeting Varric half-asleep isn’t going to make a great impression.


	8. Written Between Packing a Rucksack and Other Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's meeting with Varric yields some important news, and she goes to Fenris for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by hexlorde.

**stained in one corner with the stew being eaten while the entry was written**

First, the less urgent part of what I learned from Varric, if not the less important. Well, maybe it is less important. No witches possessed of stunning magical potency involved. Anyway: The entrance to the Deep Roads that the expedition was going to use isn’t going to work out. There was a cave-in, I think. So, that’s… bad. Very bad. Bad enough that Varric said to hold on to the full balance of what we got from Fenris, in case the whole expedition falls apart. But there _is_ a potential solution. Rumor is that a Grey Warden has been lurking around Darktown. What he’s doing there, I don’t know. I don’t know what there is _to_ do in Darktown, other than try to eke out a living and watch your life fall apart.

I tend to avoid Darktown.

The point is, we may be able to get a look at any maps of the local Deep Roads this Warden has. Hopefully. It’s a bit of a long shot. In any case, I have to take care of something else first:

The Dalish clan the witch mentioned came in three days ago by ship, and I missed them. I’d probably have heard rumors about a ship full of Dalish eventually, but I wouldn’t have known it was the right clan without going out to Sundermount and asking them. Luckily Varric is apparently the spindle at the center of Kirkwall’s rumor mill.

Since they are the right clan, I’ll be trekking out to Sundermount anyway. It’s more than a day on the road, and it needs doing _now,_ because that witch was terrifying and I’m not entirely convinced she isn’t watching me in my dreams or something.

With Aveline’s patrol schedule, I can’t drag her along. I also don’t want to leave mother alone with Gamlen. They’ve been fighting a lot and I don’t want to come back to find the “house” burned down. Carver has agreed that he’ll stay. That leaves me with a bit of a dilemma: I’m perfectly capable of defending myself, but one person alone on the road is much more likely to _need_ to defend herself, especially if she’s heading to Sundermount on the back roads. Thus, I’m going to ask Fenris to come with me. We’ll see if he’s really willing to help out.

 

**written by smokey lamplight**

I found Fenris drinking, and I got the impression he’d been at it for a while. He seemed to be really savoring his bottle of wine until he threw it at the wall.

I showed up to the second rate-for-Hightown place (they foyer is only half as big as Gamlen’s entire “house”) and knocked on the boards covering the front entrance. Fenris let me in through a window. It was even one without a thorny rosebush underneath. Maybe his feelings on mages aren’t as extreme as I thought. They probably are, though.

I think he was a bit drunk. Not very much, mind you, but enough to smooth the way a bit for conversation. Or maybe just enough that he could tell himself that. He had that bottle of wine out, and offered me a glass. I’ve had wine before, cheap stuff that they served at taverns in Lowtown and back in Lothering. This wasn’t cheap stuff. This was the kind with a fancy foreign name and Maker, did it earn it. It was pink, so I think it must have been a mix of red and white grapes, and it had this smokey taste with a little lemon to it. It was crisp, too, like you’d expect it to clear your mind rather than cloud it. I’ve never tasted anything like it.

He told me that his old ~~master~~ ~~owner~~ I don’t know what I should call him. Any of the words that describe what he did to Fenris makes it sound legitimate.

He told me Danarius used to make him pour wine for his guests, because Fenris’s appearance intimidated them. Honestly, I think his appearance is quite pleasant, with those big green eyes and that lean muscle. The markings are a bit odd, but not really off-putting. However, seeing as I have in fact had alcohol before and am not the type who gets drunk with just one glass of wine, I kept this to myself. Anyway, the man had just opened up to me about a painful memory. It wouldn’t have been the time, even if flirting with him wasn’t a stupid idea.

I said something about Danarius being an ass, he said that was something of an understatement, and then he threw the bottle of wine at the wall and said “It’s good I can still take pleasure in the small things.” I think he regretted it, when he saw the look on my face. I’m not sure what exactly that look was, but it can’t have been comfortable.

I moved on as quickly as possible to asking him if he’d come to Sundermount with me to deliver the amulet. He said yes, but couldn’t quite meet my eyes. He also didn’t ask who had given me an amulet to deliver to a Dalish elf who wasn’t even in Kirkwall when the delivery was arranged, so at least there was that benefit to the awkwardness. We leave tomorrow morning.


	9. Written on a Trip to Sundermount

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yana and Fenris meet the Dalish.

**scribbled down during a water break**

I’m nervous about meeting the Dalish. You hear a lot of stories that are completely ridiculous, but then you (or at least I) start wondering: what if there’s a kernel of truth, however small? I’m not stupid enough to think the Dalish sacrfice human children -- if they actually did, they'd be hunted down to the last elf -- and dancing naked under the moon sounds entirely too cold and impractical. But who could blame them for being angry at humans in general?

I’m nervous, but not nervous enough to risk upsetting someone as powerful as the Witch of the Wilds obviously is.

 

**written by the light of a dalish campfire**

I learned a new word this evening! That word is “shemlen” and I think it might be a slur. Joy. I also got my face grabbed by an elderly elf who said it had truth in it.

I didn’t get the names of the guards who called me shemlen and, while they were at it, told Fenris he wasn’t a real elf because he lives in a city, but the older woman is Marethari. She’s their leader. And she’s a mage. She didn’t even try to hide it. She lit a campfire with magic without so much as looking around to see who was watching. A few other elves were, and they didn’t bat an eye. It was amazing.

Marethari asked -- well, more told -- me to take the witch’s amulet up Sundermount so her apprentice could give it some sort of memorial service (Does that mean the witch is dead? I somehow doubt it.), and warned me that there would be lingering undead. Not looking forward to that, but I know how to fight them in theory and Fenris says he’s dealt with them before. And then she said her apprentice wants to go to Kirkwall with us. I can’t imagine why, if she’s a mage, too. The freedom to just cast a spell like that…

Anyway, we’re staying in the Dalish camp for the night, pitching our tents near one of their fires. The Dalish elves all sleep in wagons they have set up like little rooms. Those aren’t pulled by horses, though. I kind of took it for granted that the stories about halla were myths. They’re real, though. They smell a bit more than you’d think from the stories, and there’s more dung than one pictures an animal that seeks out the pure of heart making, but they’re real, and gorgeous. I think these ones are sick, though. All of them -- and there didn’t seem to be enough -- were lethargic.

I just realized I’m the only human here. I’m completely surrounded by elves. It’s an odd feeling.

**written while snacking on some trail mix**

Met up with Marethari’s apprentice, Merrill, a little way up the mountain. She’s adorable. There’s no other way to put it. Her eyes are even bigger than most elves’ and she’s a bit bumbling, but as long as it doesn’t interfere with fighting the occasional undead -- and it hasn’t -- it’s cute, honestly. She seems to have a decent sense of humor and she’s damned good with her staff and with primal spells. If she really does come to Kirkwall, I might ask her to work some of these jobs of Varric’s. She’ll definitely need the money.

**scrawled into the journal during a very brief break**

Merrill is a blood mage. It should have occured to me earlier to wonder why she was staying away from the other elves.

_ FUCK _

 

**written just outside the old elven burial ground**

What did I just see?

This magic, the witch -- Asha'bellanar -- appearing out of that amulet, it shouldn’t be possible. I’m not that familiar with the theory of, well, anything to do with magic, but that  _ doesn’t make sense. _ And she implied her daughter, what, killed her? That makes even less sense. Magic  _ cannot _ bring back the dead.

What did she mean about the precipice of change? What  _ is  _ she?

“Do not hesitate to leap,” she said. I managed to make a crack about that being cheap advice from a dragon, but I was terrified.

Andraste, please don’t send her, whatever she is, back to me ever again.

 

**written by the light of a campfire**

It’s late at night. We passed back through the Dalish camp and the Keeper gave Merrill a rucksack while the rest of the elves, including Fenris, glared daggers at her. No, not daggers. Fucking greatswords.

Fenris and I are taking a longer way back to Kirkwall, the better to avoid the world’s most adorable blood mage.

I can’t just report her to the Templars, and not just because they’re far too eager to make mages Tranquil. No one deserves that fate, but more than that Merrill knows  _ I’m _ a mage. Maker, what do I do?

This trip has been a disaster.


End file.
